


The Game

by Laeviss



Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Arguing, Enemies to Lovers, Fade to Black, M/M, Suggestive Themes, Wranduin Week 2020, Wrathion dropping hard truths and Anduin being angry horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26374726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Anduin and Wrathion bicker about the nature of cause and blame over a private game of chess. Written for Wranduin Week Day 3: Enemies to Lovers!
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914982
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	The Game

“You know,” Wrathion lifts a black pawn from the board, clicking his nail against the tip and rolling it with his thumb. He shrugs, then places it forwards two places. When he leans back, he crosses his arms, and continues, “I didn’t kill your father. Not really.”

His voice jumps in pitch at the end of his declaration, ringing like a chime. Tapping his nails against his silk-clad arm, he lifts his gaze, and waits.

Anduin’s jaw tightens. His brows rise, and it takes a moment to swallow the lump that has leapt to his throat. “Wrathion,” he warns, darkly. Nudging forward a white piece four squares away from the dragon’s, he clenches his fingers into his palm. 

Wrathion studies him, a faint smile crossing his lips. “You are, of course, entitled to feel hurt by my…indiscretion, as I have acknowledged many times. I deeply regret my childish stupidity. But saying I killed your father—”

“Wrathion,” Anduin interjects. The dragon’s musical tone never falters. 

“—Well, it seems a bit of a leap, really. You wouldn’t blame the titans for the Sundering, simply because they created the Well, nor would you blame Uther for Arthas’ fall because he took him on as a student. Events in this world come to pass through the causes and conditions feeding into them. The mages describe it as a kind of web. Perhaps you have heard this analogy before?”

“Your move,” Anduin replies.

“Ah, yes!” Wrathion exclaims. With a flick of his wrist, he catches the head of the knight between his nails and places it down with a click.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the black and white checks, Anduin purses his lips. “Not all of us have been sleeping in the Guardian’s basement,” he points out.

“A fair point, indeed.” 

As Wrathion chuckles, Anduin grits his teeth. Furrowing his brow, he selects another white pawn and nudges it to stand diagonal with the knight. His fingers shake as he withdraws and folds them in his lap. 

Bile gnaws at the pit of his stomach, extending its dark, noxious tendrils to his chest. Glancing down at his half empty teacup, he considers drowning the acidic taste at the back of his tongue in chamomile. He unclenches his hands, rolls back his shoulders, and reaches for it. The clack of ivory against the board stops his arm. 

The knight has sprung forward again. Wrathion leans back in his chair and dusts off his palms. The orange glow from the fire plays upon his gold-tipped nails, showering the stone wall at his left with speckles of light. Their flicker draws Anduin’s gaze. Breathing in, he catches a whiff of ambergris and charcoal, a combination that calls to mind a stolen moment under the stairs at the Tavern in the Mists. Their young bodies pressing together, Wrathion’s mouth hot against his lips, smoke curling from his nostrils as Anduin works a hand up under his shirt…

A loud chuckle shatters the thought. Anduin glances at Wrathion’s smirk, shoving forward his pawn without checking the board. “What?” He mutters.

Wrathion lifts a brow; another spray of glitter dances across the wall as he taps his nails in short succession against his elbow. “I am glad to see you are, at least, considering it.”

“I’m not,” Anduin asserts.

Wrathion’s slit pupils narrow. “But you had such a distant look in your eyes, surely you had to be considering _something_.”

The king’s mouth goes dry. Knowing he can’t admit where his thoughts have strayed, he clears his throat, licks his lips, and lies, “I was thinking about the game.”

“Ah, of course. How best to lose half your pawns to me. An excellent strategy.” Wrathion nods, sweeping forward his bishop and snatching a white piece in the same fluid gesture. Holding it up between the pads of his fingers as if memorizing its size, he flashes a grin, the sharp tips of his teeth peeking out.

Anduin’s eyes stray to the dragon’s beard, fuller and thicker than it was that day it tickled the tip of his chin. A prickle starts at the nap of his neck and races beneath his blond hair. Crossing his ankles under the table and nudging closed his knees, he tears his gaze from the other man’s full lower lip and reaches for his tea; its mellow scent can’t compete with the strength of Wrathion’s cologne in his nostrils. 

Even so, he takes a swig and returns the cup to its saucer. He blinks, creasing his brow, and studying the black and white checks spread between them. While the evenly measured grid should have invited stability, the pattern bleeds together, conjuring gray spots at its points of intersections that swell wider the longer Anduin stares.

Squeezing closed his eyes, he brings two fingers to his brow and rubs. After a quick exhale, he reaches down, feeling out the ridges crowning his rook and scooting it four paces forward.

Wrathion clicks the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Fascinating.”

“Your move,” the king repeats. 

Wrathion’s curls bounce against his shoulders as he nods. “Of course!” He scoots his pawn to confront the castle. Tilting his head to the right and leaning forward to study the pieces at eye level, he casts a crimson glow across the tiles. 

The gray spots clouding Anduin’s vision disappear, and he swallows, straightening. “My father wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t freed Garrosh, you know. No matter what you say about webs.”

“Of course,” the dragon concedes. “And yet one might say the same about many people. Your father wouldn’t have died if Garrosh hadn’t been so uncooperative with Kairozdormu’s plan. He wouldn’t have died if Mathias Shaw, Spymaster of Stormwind, hadn’t gotten himself captured, nor if both the Banshee Queen and your dear advisor Greymane hadn’t left him to face Gul’dan alone. Causes. And. Conditions.” He marks each word with a flick of his nails.

Anduin’s stomach roils. He pulls his lips into an unyielding line and draws back his shoulders. With every word, his ire rises, irritation itching at the tips of every finger. He glares down at a cluster of black chess pieces and his face burns: Not because the dragon’s words are false, but because he knows them to be true...

Sighing, he brings forward one of his knights and sweeps away a black pawn. It topples and rolls off the corner of the table, hitting the rug with a muffled ‘thmp.’ Wrathion’s red eyes widen. 

“And yet for some reason,” Anduin notes under his breath, “Everything was my father’s fault when he spared Garrosh’s life. What did you call him, again? An idio—”

“That.” Wrathion holds out his hand, before sweeping it forwards to pick up his queen. “I chalk up to youthful foolishness, and as I’ve said already, I am quite sorry for that, and any anguish it might have caused. Truly, Anduin, I am sorry.”

“And yet you refuse to take full responsibility?”

“I will not take responsibility for something I didn’t do, my dear. I apologize for my mistakes. What more is there—?”

“Oh, there’s quite a bit more, Wrathion.” Anduin insists. His hand darts forward, slipping under Wrathion’s wrist to remove his rook from the queen’s path. Gold bracelets ghost his knuckles, jangling, cool, against his taut skin. Blood rushes to his cheeks. Air sticks in his throat. Dropping his gaze from Wrathion’s face, it lands, instead, to the clump of dark hair peeking out from his collar, then to the swell of his chest gently rising and falling.

Biting his lower lip, he snaps back with the piece clutched in his palm. Frustration mounts, but his tongue refuses to form the words he wants to shoot back. Shaking his head, he uncurls his hand and lets the castle slide from his grip. He ruffles his bangs, now wet at the ends by the sweat clinging to his brow, and pushes up the blue sleeve of his tunic. 

Wrathion gingerly places his queen where the rook stood vigil, then opens his claw-like fingers and floats them to his side. “More?” He muses. “I suppose so. I should have recalled the Bronze Dragonflight’s madness, and considered Garrosh Hellscream’s, ah—”

“Brutality?” Anduin manages. 

Wrathion looks from his nails to Anduin’s face. His lips curl into a knowing grin. The human wrinkles his nose, his blush deepening. 

“Stubbornness was the word I was reaching for. But, yes, brutality, as well.”

“We were trying to put out the fire, Wrathion. You set off a bomb.”

“Desperation truly makes us forget ourselves, my dear.” After tucking his right hand into his lap, Wrathion reaches for his wine with his left, holding it up to the firelight. The flames crackle and catch on ripples marring the liquid’s deep purple surface; he gives the glass a thoughtful swirl. Tilting it in and taking a sip, he studies Anduin’s face over the arch of the rim across the bridge of his nose. 

“We try to look past others’…shortcomings when the situation calls for it. Is that not the story of our time? Alliance and Horde clashing, then uniting to slay a common foe, finding solace in those they wouldn’t otherwise trust, forging impermanent truces—”

“And taking advisors they know they shouldn’t,” Anduin adds. 

Pursing his lips, Wrathion puts down his glass, and turns his gaze to the board. “That, as well, yes.” He shifts in his seat. His knees turn to the side beneath the table, brushing the outside of Anduin’s left calf. 

Tensing, the king clenches his teeth and tucks his feet under his chair. His skin tingles; Wrathion’s heat lingers where their legs touched. He sucks in a breath, then exhales, curbing the sigh that follows on its heels.

Wrathion’s eyes dart to his lips. The lines between his thick brows smooth. He slides forward his rook, and relaxes back into his chair with a smile. “Your move, my dear.”

Every muscle in Anduin’s face tightens under the weight of the dragon’s red stare. Brushing back his bangs, he studies the pieces before him, chasing every other thought from his mind. Black queen faces white knight. Black bishop eyes white pawn, a clear diagonal cut between them. And white bishop lingers unnoticed, four black squares between him and the queen. 

Without a word, Anduin slides forward his bishop, and nudges Wrathion’s queen off the board. It topples with a clack, rolling into a hand cupped at the edge of the table. The glint of gold nails draws Anduin’s gaze. Sweat prickles at the nape of his neck. 

“Excellent move, my dear. I’m afraid I let down my guard.” The dragon flashes a knowing grin Anduin doesn’t return. Bowing his head, the human focuses, ignoring the clatter of Wrathion’s bracelets, and thinking only of his openings. Five pawns still un-utilized, spread in a line before his king and queen. His last rook stands watch over the right edge of the board. Closing his fingers around its notched crown, he lifts it, flicks his wrist, sets his sights on a square three paces ahead, and…freezes.

The curled tip of a leather boot traces from his ankle to his knee. His heart plummets, and blood races to all his extremities. The piece slips from his fingers with a clack and a rattle that knocks over the nearby knight. Something cold reaches up and clenches around his lungs, forcing the air from his chest. 

His chair squeaks as he throws it back. His knees buckle as he stumbles forward, and when his thigh bumps against the table, the rest of the pieces tip over and scatter, their felt-lined bases the only thing tempering their cracks. With his pulse surging in his ears, Anduin leans in and grips either side of Wrathion’s chair. Huffing, he meets the dragon’s toothy smirk with a glower.

“What—” he sputters. 

Wrathion’s brows rise, and he shrugs. His smug expression falters, however, after he steals a quick glance to the front of Anduin’s pants. Tilting his chin to gaze up Anduin’s body, his cheeks darken, and his slit pupils draw inwards. He lifts his arm, fixes his eyes upon Anduin’s face, and, carefully, reaches for Anduin’s belt.

The king’s chest jolts, his shoulders tensing on either side of his neck, but he doesn’t recoil. After a pause, Wrathion’s gold-tipped nail works under the latch, flicking it open and drawing the strap from the buckle. As the article loosens, the tent in the king’s pants twitches. Grazing the heel of his hand along the fabric, Wrathion snickers, then slides back. Both ends of Anduin’s belt swing free beside his hips.

Heart pounding in his head, Anduin tumbles into a haze. It sweeps over him, stripping him of his reasons and complaints and leaving behind only teeth-gritting irritation and need aching between his legs. He clenches his hands by his sides. Turning his head, he watches his own shadow spill out over the abandoned chess board.

Wrathion murmurs an unfamiliar word under his breath, crosses his arms, and spreads his thighs until his knees press against the armrests of his chair. He arches a brow, and Anduin swallows. Fractals of light dance across the wall behind him as he taps his nails on his arm.

Anduin opens his mouth to comment, but Wrathion cuts him off. With a rap of his hand and a smug half smile, he whispers, enticingly, infuriatingly…

“Your move, your Majesty.”


End file.
